


bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise

by queenhomeslice



Series: Punk Rock RegClar [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Concerts, Green Day References, Grinding, M/M, Making Out, Punk Rock, Semi-Public Sex, aged-down characters, prince regis lucis caelum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29951022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhomeslice/pseuds/queenhomeslice
Summary: Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Square Enix or any production studios behind the Final Fantasy franchise or Final Fantasy XV; I am not making money from this work and I do not own the rights to FF in any way.All rights & royalties of song lyrics belong to Green Day; I own nothing.-----for GG, as usual! enjoy more punk regclar <3Title and song lyrics in the fic are from Green Day's "Longview"
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia/Regis Lucis Caelum
Series: Punk Rock RegClar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202828
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Railyard_Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Railyard_Ghosts/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Square Enix or any production studios behind the Final Fantasy franchise or Final Fantasy XV; I am not making money from this work and I do not own the rights to FF in any way. 
> 
> All rights & royalties of song lyrics belong to Green Day; I own nothing. 
> 
> \-----  
> for GG, as usual! enjoy more punk regclar <3 
> 
> Title and song lyrics in the fic are from Green Day's "Longview"

Regis pushes Clarus up against the back wall, between the grimy bathrooms and the shitty bar. He wedges one knee between his shield’s legs, smirking as he feels the developing hardness there. Clarus lets himself be manhandled by the shorter prince, getting off on the size difference between them. He stares down into Regis’ gorgeous green eyes, which are absolutely brimming with heat and lust. Clarus groans out of sheer need—it should be impossible to love this much, but with Regis, it’s so easy. 

It’s a night of cover bands—the goofy teenagers that are currently up on stage are having  _ way  _ too much fun belting out raw renditions of Green Day songs, in his opinion—but it’s still all fun. He’s wearing an old flannel shirt and jeans, and Regis is wrapped in a faded Nirvana shirt and ripped skinny jeans that cup his royal rear  _ just  _ right. The lights are dimmed and people keep bumping into them, spilling beer and who knows what else on their clothes. The whole venue smells like piss and weed—but Clarus hones in on the herbal scent of Regis’ shampoo, the scent of his sweat that clings to him in the poorly-ventilated venue, his deodorant that starts off smelling like pine trees but always seems to morph into smelling like freshly mowed grass. 

“ _Clare_ ,” Regis growls the nickname into his shield's skin, biting into that soft junction of neck and shoulder. 

The young shield will have to wear a high collar tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. Not when his prince is grinding against him to the rhythm of angsty punk rock. Not when those deft, sword-calloused fingers are sliding up under his shirt and groping at the muscles he’s spent so many years shaping into the perfect form for Regis. Clarus lets his eyes flutter shut and finally allows himself to roll his hips against Regis, the prince’s knee providing the perfect solid surface to buck against. 

Clarus groans. “Highness...”

“Oh, don’t call me that,” Regis says as he licks a stripe from Clarus’ ear down to the collar of his grungy flannel shirt. “Not here, not now...”

“Someone could _see_ ,” Clarus manages. 

“We’re already here. Who cares if we’re seen  _ together _ ?” 

“T-tabloids...” Clarus’ voice trails off as soon as his prince’s dangerous hands have flicked open the button of his jeans. Before Clarus can process what’s happening, Regis’ hand is down the front of his pants and around his cock, stroking it to full hardness. 

“Don’t care about tabloids,” Regis murmurs as he keeps his face nuzzled into his lover’s soft flannel shirt. 

“You  gotta care about tabloids,” Clarus grunts, even as his slender hips are jerking forward of their own accord, desperate for Regis to touch him more and more and  _ more. _

_ “Bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise, I’m so damn bored I’m going blind, and I smell like  _ _ shiiiiiiit _ _...!”  _ the energetic front man croons, a roughshod imitation of Billy Joe Armstrong, but the crowd eats it up anyway and sings along, providing a backup vocal choir to offset the slightly off-key instruments. 

Regis has finally, at least, pulled Clarus into one of the back rooms of the venue that no one is supposed to know about, and now Clarus is trapped on a couch that’s at least twenty years old with Regis straddling him, desperately trying to get his own pants off so Clarus can fuck him. 

It's gross, it’s loud.

They’re drunk, it’s 2 am.

And someone is probably  _ watching _ . 

But Clarus can’t care, not when Regis sinks down on him and throws his head back in ecstasy, taking Clarus’ hard cock all in one fell swoop, skinny jeans pushed down to his ankles, the two of them sinking into the ratty old couch with every heavenly rhythmic movement that matches the deafening beat of the drums on the other side of the thin wall. 

Clarus hugs Regis close and they whisper dirty, wonderful things into  each others’ ears as they fuck in the back of the shitty underground punk venue, letting the music be a cover for their cries of pleasure. Tomorrow, Regis will no doubt face repercussions, and he’ll be dragged by the ear into a thousand things that he wouldn’t choose for himself. 

But tonight—and Clarus—are wholly and completely  _ his _ . 


End file.
